A Cruel and Beautiful World
by JamJackEvo
Summary: Cruelty & Beauty. In this world, they're 2 sides of the same coin. In cruelty, there are reasons. In beauty, there are secrets. Mikasa did not have much to think about on that day when Eren was killed, for in that moment, her humanity was discarded and the wrath of a Titan emerged. Starts at Chapter/Episode 7. Titan-Shifter!Mikasa, MikaEren
1. Prologue

Date written: 07/07/13 – 08/07/13

Posted on FanFiction: 14/07/13

— **PROLOGUE —**

"_**I . . . am strong.**_

"_**Unbelievably so. Much stronger than all of you put together.**_

"_**Therefore . . . I can kick every single one of those Titans' asses.**_

"_**Even if I have to do it alone."**_

* * *

This world was a cruel place. It had always been filled with cruelty. Her mind all those years ago just refused to acknowledge such an evil fact. If not the Titans, then there were humans who could be as cruel as Titans. The world was cruel . . .

But it was also beautiful.

And now . . . now that beauty was gone. What else was there in this world to keep her going, to keep her from dying? What could this world give her in compensation for the cruelty it brought to her doorstep? Her parents dead, her new family destroyed, her Eren killed. Her life as she knew it was gone.

All that was left from the fiery destruction brought on by the Titans was cruelty. Hope was meaningless. Living was meaningless. The world no longer mattered to her.

Mikasa came to this conclusion the moment she had leaped from the rooftop and depressed the triggers on her gear. The shot of the hooks flying and embedding to the surrounding buildings, the feel of the high-pressure gas putting momentum into the shots, the intense velocity of the wind as she sailed ten times the speed of a running human, they were the kinds of distractions she welcomed with open arms. She knew she was entering denial, was deliberately closing off the pain in her heart with action that required nothing more than the instinct of a killer, but within that denial there was a purpose, within that instinct, a desire: To kill every Titan she saw until she herself was killed by one. A twisted purpose, sure, but it was better this than let Titans devour her without putting up a fight.

Yes, going down in a fight. That was the best way. The best way for her to die. Eren died fighting, too, after all.

She readied her blades. A Titan was in front of her, unaware of its impending demise. Its flesh was harder than leather, but in her current velocity, with a weapon sharpened to perfection, it was like chopping firewood at the back of her old home. Two parallel slices to start with, then adjust the angle of the blades till their tips almost touch, exiting out on the other side of the monster's nape and dragging along the lump of flesh that was made to be its weakness.

She didn't stay to watch the Titan fall; there were plenty more for her to kill.

The gas emissions abounded her that the air felt stifling, as if her gear had started overheating. But such nuances never really registered. The speed in which she was propelling herself through negated most of the high-pressure gas from distracting her for too long. She sighted another Titan to her right, along the next street. She changed course, depressed the trigger, but no propulsion.

She tried the other trigger, but it was the same result. She had run out of gas.

Her trajectory was still in full swing, going a little below a hundred miles an hour, and she had already retracted her hooks, so there was nothing for her to do except ride it out till she either hit a wall, splattering her body like a fly to a swatter, or fall to the ground, where even if she survived, she was still a likely candidate for a Titan's snack. But she neither hit a wall nor fall to the ground. Her last moment before detracting her second hook, she switched her body's center of gravity to assimilate the change in direction with as little time as possible. This, in turn, shifted her trajectory and veered her to the roof of a nearby building.

But Mikasa's velocity was still too fast.

Her left leg hit a dormer—one of the little windows protruding from any triangular roof in Trost—fracturing the bones on impact. Her center of gravity changed from both the momentum and the lapse of concentration. The roof shingles cut into her body as she was bounced, dragged, and scratched all over till her speed decreased to a stop.

The roof, however, was not long enough for a full stop.

Barely making ten miles an hour, she was still rolling across the sloped roof. Her left leg got abused by a chimney during her slide, worsening the fracture that the bone began to stick out of her flesh, and Mikasa tried to stifle the shout, but the salvo of pain proved too much even for her. She was unsure whether it was because of the innate human-sensing ability the Titan's possess or it was because of her agonized cry that alerted the Titan below her.

All that really came to her was that her body reached the end of the rooftop, still possessing velocity . . . velocity that was then compounded by gravity as she sailed downwards into the gaping mouth of a frog-faced Titan.

Her hand instinctively reached out to the rooftop, but it was already too late. The gap was too long, the edge too far. But still, something in her wanted to grab onto that roof again, to keep on living. There was light beyond that edge, a glimmer of beauty in a cruel world but she was uncertain whether that glimmer was real or a figment of her imagination, temporarily fragmented by the onset of pain throbbing in every part of her body. How she so wanted to reach it, how she wanted to survive . . . yet . . . yet Eren . . . how could she survive without Eren by her side . . . to protect . . . to cherish . . .

Strength renewed, she grabbed onto the Titan's teeth, taking great care not to put pressure on her fractured leg. Her good leg stomped on the tooth beside the lower incisor as she used her hands to keep the mouth open as far and as long as she could. But the renewed strength was running on a time limit. Her muscles were strained to the max as the Titan was showing exemplary power in its counter, in its desire to devour her whole. Slowly, painfully, her grip was slipping and the open wound on her left leg was beginning to sting like crazy with all the Titan saliva rinsing it.

She had to get out. She needed to get out!

_But why? Why?_

She looked up onto the rooftop again, that small part of her still wishing to grab onto the ledge and pull herself out of here, no matter how great the distance between them was. Light was blocked by a head peering over that ledge, and though the silhouette warped the face with darkness, Mikasa could instinctively tell that it was Armin.

"Mikasa!"

His voice rang loud, wakening her instincts further. She reached out with her right hand, as if to assure Armin that she—

The Titan's mouth closed shut, cutting off her arm . . . and whatever salvation she wanted to attain.

* * *

The bowel of a Titan was dark and slimy and hot. Mikasa had blacked out once the shock from the amputation of her right arm had worn out and she was introduced to a new definition of pain. The rigorous training she and the rest of the recruits had gone through for the better part of three years before their relocation to Trost all paled in comparison to this one devastating wound. Her blackout lasted for only twenty seconds—ample time for the rest of her body to travel the monster's esophagus and dive into the blood-filled stomach where dismembered cadavers float about like flower petals on a pond. Her nose and mouth had one intake of blood before she resurfaced, coughing up a storm and spitting out a lake.

Mikasa motioned for her right hand to wipe away the blood all over her face, but it was like her hand suddenly turned into a phantom. Pain was constant right now and maybe it was a bit of delirium lurking from the initial shock, but she honestly thought she still had her right arm intact. Now looking at the stump left behind, despite the trickles of blood clinging to her eyelashes, she realized her error and motioned for her left to do the task instead. It still throbbed, but she composed herself now. Such a thing was now just a secondary concern.

The heat, however, was unimaginable, and it proved the point that she really had been devoured by a Titan. The bodies of her comrades swam lifelessly around her and Mikasa felt as if she had entered a nightmare she could not wake from. A nightmare she chose for her own, because wasn't it due to her desire to fight and die that she was in this situation?

She chose to die fighting and she did.

Yet . . .

Why was a part of her still wanted to live? Why did it want to carry on, despite knowing that the world outside could be as cruel and painful as being slowly digested into a gelatinous cocoon for the Titan to regurgitate once there was no more room to eat? What was the point? Why did she have to keep on—

_**FIGHT!**_

A voice echoed in her head.

_**FIGHT! YOU HAVE TO FIGHT!**_

"E . . . ren . . .?"

_**FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!**_

"Eren . . ."

_**FIGHT!**_

"Eren . . . I'm sorry . . ."

In her haste to die, she did not think about what her actions entailed. If she were to die here, then why did Eren sacrifice his life for all those years ago? So that she could meet her end inside the belly of a Titan instead? No, he wouldn't want that. He'd _refuse_ to even consider that Mikasa would give up like this. Fight because it was the only way. If she didn't fight, she already lost. If she did fight, she would have a chance at winning and survive. But as long as she didn't fight, then she would die.

She said those words not too long ago, yet she was nothing more than a hypocrite. They were borrowed words from a person far braver than she was. She was unwilling to face the truth, to face the world despite the cruelty, despite the sadness, despite the loss. When her parents died, she had been without hope or a future; Eren had been there to give her purpose once more, to show her that there was still beauty to be found in this cruel world. But when Eren's mother died, he found the will to go forward on his own. He might've been a little emotional for most of the weeks following Carla's death, maybe doing some stupider things than usual, but he didn't need her to soldier on. If left on his own, he'd most likely be fine. She, however, did not have that kind of motivation. So when she heard that Eren was killed, instead of learning from his example and soldier on, she decided 'To hell with this world!' and threw away everything.

"I'm so . . . so sorry, Eren . . ."

She regretted doing this, regretted never having the chance to save him when he needed her the most. And most of all, she regretted having to die because she would no longer have Eren live on in her memory. It would all come to an end soon, she realized. And there was nothing she could do to stop that.

_**FIGHT!**_

But . . . his voice nagged her. Encouraged her. Steeled her.

_**FIGHT!**_

No matter the odds. No matter that she was devoured. No matter that there was no way out in sight.

_**FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!**_

She did not regain her resolve just so this insignificant Titan could crush it later.

_**FIGHT! FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT**_

"I . . ."

She raised her dismembered arm, the ghost of her hand looking like it wanted to touch the sky.

_**FIGHTFIGHTFIGHTFIGHTFIGHTFIGHTFIGHTFIGHTFIGHTFIGHT …**_

"I WILL LIVE!"

There was a feeling of weightlessness, of lightning pulsing in her body, of something wrapping all around her. Then everything went black.

And just as it did, a giant bloodied hand emerged from the frog Titan's mouth.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

Well, after months of inactivity, I come out not with an update but a new story that I've been getting in my head. And it's a Shingeki no Kyojin story to boot, with Mikasa getting a Titan form! BOOYAH!

Anyway, for those of you there who want to know the fate of Princess of Death, My Girlfriend, and The Lost Girl, please head on over to my profile. I'll explain what I'm going to do with these 3 over there. The rest of the notes here will talk about what was going on in my mind when I decided to write things the way they are in this prologue.

**Parallelism** - I was aiming for parallelism here between Eren's "steps" into his first Titan transformation and Mikasa's own. With slight differences. Eren lost a whole leg, Mikasa just got hers fractured. Eren got eaten while saving Armin, Mikasa got eaten when she made a rookie mistake.

**Serum, Creator or Activator **- Now I have my own ideas about the serum Grisha administered to Eren, which also caused his amnesia. In my opinion, Eren is more likely a descendant of Titan-shifters (or maybe even part-Titan) and Grisha is fully aware of that and keeps all his notes in the basement. The serum itself is more like an amplifier or some kind of biological tutor for Eren's body to activate his latent power and instantly know how to use it to a degree.

Here in this fic, however, I'm going for the serum being some Titan steroid. Mikasa stumbles upon Grisha injecting Eren with this serum, he saw her, she asks him what the hell he was doing, so he explains a bit (this part is grayed out because while Mikasa will remember this conversation at some point later, she won't remember everything due to the drug's amnesia effects), then gives her the serum as well because she knew in her heart of hearts that this was a power that could protect Eren better in the future.

Anything more than that is still in the conceptual stage.

**Mikasa is OP now!** - I'm also going to have to address these moments I keep having, and no doubt dozens of reader will feel the same way. The thing about Shingeki no Kyojin is that it always tries to bring down humanity's side, abusing it as much as it could without really putting that ultimatum of defeat on their heads, because it's all about humanity managing to survive through these countless defeats to finally have a chance at fighting back, to prove that their spirit will forever be pushing forward. Well, that's an optimistic POV, and such optimism could get you killed in this universe. Maybe. As it is now, I have my own twists regarding Mikasa's new transformation. Twists that will be introduced in future chapters.


	2. 01: Emergence

Date written: 08/07/13 – 18/07/13

Posted on FanFiction: 20/07/13

* * *

–– **CHAPTER 1 ––**

**Emergence**

Armin couldn't think straight. The tragedies kept piling up, one after the other, and he could only stand there and watch as each one played out and replayed like a never-ending nightmare. His whole team was massacred. Eren sacrificed his life for him. And now Mikasa died as a way for her to be closer to Eren again.

This was not right. This was not how it should be. This could not happen!

But it did. Mikasa's severed arm lying on the ground, over fifteen meters below him, drove that fact home. Eaten by a Titan, leaving behind an arm for mourners to bury. Yes, in a very twisted and tragic way, Mikasa found what she was looking for, because Eren died the same way she did.

And now he was alone, alone to take on the threat of humanity, without support, without the chance of being saved anymore. He was on his own, and he never even got to repay the two for their friendship, for the hand they extended to him without a moment of hesitation. They were his friends, the best he could ask for, and so as his legs give out from under him, staring into the sinister grin of Mikasa's killer, seeing it stretch from ear to ear like that cat from an old story her Mom had once told, he was afraid of what he should do. Should he continue the fight or flee to coordinate a better plan of attack?

There was no point in giving up, not with the Titans knocking on Wall Rose's door, and it would not be long before the Armored Titan shows itself and breaches the second Wall. No, fleeing was the last thing on Armin's mind. Instead, it was trying to formulate and calculate and postulate the best possible outcome for all involved. But _trying_ did not mean it had something to think over.

As it was now, Armin was too flooded with grief and despair to really think things through. All he could do was watch the grin on the Titan's gaping lips as it sat like a frog readying for a jump. There should've been warning bells ringing in his head, he should've been running away from the roof's edge lest that Titan decided to jump and chomp, but he couldn't move. His mind was beginning to blow out the fog trapped inside, but his body was too shocked by the death of his second closest friend to even demand movement.

Ah . . . it was just like before. The shock of death paralyzed him on the spot. It was only when he was close to being swallowed by that bearded Titan that his body found the urge to move despite it being too late. Would this be the same? Would he move too late to escape in time? Would he die like the rest of his friends and be nothing more than the digested remains of a monster? Did that mean . . . Eren's sacrifice was in vain?

No. NO!

He had to move. He had to move. He had to move. _HE HAD TO MOVE!_

Before he could find the power, however, whatever luck that kept him alive for this long still continued its winning streak. It came in the form of a giant fist bursting out of the Titan's mouth, splatting Armin's face with a bit of hot Titan blood. The appearance of the fist brought with it Armin's ability to move, and he slid up the sloped roof with fear in his heart and desperation in his head.

The frog Titan began to bloat and then explode into a gory mess, and from within a gaping hole, there emerged a more frightening Titan. With black hair, contrasting the brown of the frog Titan, and a physique that was rare to be found among its kin. Most were fat or skinny, but only one out of twenty could you find a Titan with excellent musculature. The new Titan radiated such untapped strength that Armin wouldn't be surprised if it ended up being the one to break down the last defense of Trost and give entry to the rest of its kind inside Wall Rose.

The Titan roared to the sky.

He flinched and covered his ears. Fortunately, the encompassing fear had not made him irrational enough to disregard every single detail of the creature. This was a new kind of Titan, one that was never seen before. Whatever information he could garner from it would prepare him and humanity with strategies if ever he got out of this alive and be debriefed about what he just saw.

It stood at fifteen meters when the Titan it emerged from was barely seven meters. Was this the evolution of these creatures? Did they require something from humans to evolve and change into taller, stronger Titans, thus explaining at least some of their cannibalistic tendency to devour Mankind? Or maybe the seven-meter frog Titan was a cocoon for this fifteen meter one, nesting inside the stomach until it had enough humans to eat to greet the world, like a caterpillar growing into a butterfly?

The blood on his face began to evaporate.

The rest of the frog Titan was evaporating as well, even the blood covering the new Titan's body. Its skin was almost yellowish, like a person in the early stages of jaundice, with scattered blue veins and red arteries visible on the surface. The cocoon and the butterfly were of two different forms that Armin found it hard to believe his first theory of the two Titans being the same. The first one had the body and face of a male, but this new one was undoubtedly female. What did that mean? What was the difference between a male and female Titan? Was this how they were able to reproduce their numbers that they cover the whole world beyond the Walls? So many questions wanting to be answered, but Armin suppressed them so he could concentrate on more of the Titan's features. Any detail could be important.

Its black hair reached its chin, masking its cheeks, but not the eyes and certainly not the full red lips.

Her eyes were wide and glossy and raven black, as if no light would think of reflecting upon them. The moment those eyes turned to look at him, it was like the world stopped and only the abyss beyond those eyes were what Armin could see or deem to look at. He could picture his death in her hands, either crushed like a fly or devoured like a tasty dessert. This time, however, Armin could not afford to let paralysis bring him to a fate he didn't want. His legs willed to move, and he swerved to sprint as far away from that monster, even with how low his gas reserves were. It was better than offering that Titan food on a silver platter.

Just as he turned, he saw another Titan in the midst of climbing the roof he was on. Brown-haired with squinted eyes, grinning as if it knew about some inside joke about the world that would forever be hilarious, one of its hands was already in the midst of grabbing onto Armin . . . and Armin just unknowingly dashed towards it.

He tried to change course, but it was too late. Hot fingers enclosed his body. He could no longer move.

The female Titan roared again and, as unbelievable as it looked, it jumped over twenty meters into the air before landing on top of the Titan grabbing him. The grip on him loosened and he was dropped close to the ledge. His legs came over the edge before he started grabbing for anything to keep him from going totally over. His hands found purchase with some shingles, though they were easily getting removed with the force he was pulling them with. He got back on the roof safely regardless.

Too busy from trying to keep from falling, Armin only managed to see the female Titan delivering one final blow on the nape of its downed brethren and bellowing a third roar, one he could say for certain was a war cry. Still, he couldn't really wrap his head around the fact that a Titan not just saved him, but also killed its own kind.

"Armin!" someone shouted to his left.

"Connie," Armin murmured, relief flooding in his veins.

"You okay? Boy, that was a close one, wasn't it?"

"Yeah." His attention was more on the female Titan and what its next move would be. Something was beginning to form in his head—an idea. A radical idea to be sure, but an idea that had merit along with the demerits. And he was not one to discard something just because it had both good and bad. If this was wrong, then he just had to think of a better one. And this was really the best one he had. Well, as long as he believed that he hadn't gone into delirium, like long term soldiers who had seen so many friends die that they started staring off into their own world and subsequently confusing fantasy with reality.

"We best skedaddle while we have the chance, man. I don't want to stick around with that Titan near us."

"Please wait a minute. I need to verify something here first."

"Verify what, exactly? That's a Titan! We're Titan food if we don't leave quick. The others might have already made it to HQ." Connie paused, looked around. "By the way, where did Mikasa go?"

"That's what I want to verify."

"Huh?"

"Never mind . . . ah!" Far in the next block, another Titan appeared. Skinny but a little muscular, it loomed fifteen meters tall like its female kin, and it was headed this way.

The female Titan roared again, as if provoking the enemy to come at it. The other Titan roared as well, accepting the challenge, and, knowing that it was about to come its way, the female put its arms up and—

"That's—!"

—assumed a martial arts stance Armin and the recruits had learned in boot camp. More pieces of the puzzle began to click into place. If what he thought was right, then that meant the female Titan was . . . was . . .

No, that was not possible. There had to be more clues, more proof that what he was seeing with his own eyes fitted with what his mind had conjured. He couldn't afford to bet everything on this theory and find out that it was wrong. But still, the issued challenge made this female Titan abnormal, to say the least. A martial arts stance, a desire to kill its own kind . . . what the hell was she?

The other Titan began to move, but just as he was about to sprint towards her, a fist, coming from the monster's left, landed on the back of its head, decapitating it ruthlessly and sending the severed head right at the female Titan, who only maneuvered her body to the left, dodging the projectile without as much as a twitch or a sign of surprise. The head kept flying until it crashed into the belfry of one of the neighboring towers. Armin and Connie stared at the sheer distance the thing was thrown before looking back at the steaming neck of the downed Titan. One raised foot came from the monster's left and bashed its nape when it tried to stand back up.

The Titan killer stepped out of the buildings blocking their view, and it was as imposing as the female. Chiseled muscles, long brown hair, elven ears, glowing green eyes, it was like staring at a war god in Titan form. The two stared at each other, gauging the other's power and what odds they have of winning. It might be a little exaggerated to think of the Titans thinking rationally and giving forethought on a battle plan, but that was what it felt like as the air tensed. Steam was coming from both of their bodies as the stare-down continued.

Neither wanted to do the first move for some reason, leading credence that the female at least was familiar with basic martial arts; it was not about strength, but the ability to redirect strength towards the enemy, thus minimizing effort and maximizing the counter.

Armin's eyes widened the moment the male put his arms up and assumed a boxer's stance.

"Wha—" At a loss for words, he could only gape.

"What the . . . fuck?" Connie at least managed to convey what Armin had in mind, though in a more vulgar term.

Sensing that her opponent was in no mood to step closer, the female slid her feet against the ground, moving slowly, retaining the stance, but closing the distance between them. The male, not to be undone, moved as well, but preferred steps over slides. Steps each taken with caution and no awkward footing, unlike normal Titans which believe that walking only means putting one foot in front of the other. It was like looking at two professional fighters prepping up for a ferocious battle, where there was no room for errors or mistakes, for to incite such a thing could mean the end of the battle in the enemy's favor.

Armin gulped. Great intelligence, situational awareness, and martial arts knowledge. Was this really happening?

He observed the female's stance more closely, how she slides with practiced ease, how she relaxes her muscles momentarily before tensing them again, how the steel in those black orbs glinted with an impervious will. The clues were all there, all there right in his face, yet a fraction of his mind where logic reigned supreme and did not even think twice to discard the flimsy notions of 'gut feelings' he often had about a topic swimming in his head. They were clues, yes, but the analysis remained inconclusive. Or rather, he refused to conclude the thought because to do so would mean admitting to himself that one of his closest friends had become a Titan.

That female Titan was . . . she was . . .

The male's patience grew thin. It yearned for a swift kill and it capitalized on it. When the gap between them lessened to twenty meters, he put both legs together, crouched, and launched himself forward, with one hand pulled back, aiming to land a solid haymaker right in the female's face. She tilted her head to the left, not unlike how she dodged the severed head coming at her, grabbed the male's wrist and bicep, twisted her body around, and pulled him over his shoulder, where his back met the ground.

The concrete below him cracked and the windows near them shattered at both the vibration and the violent wind. Armin and Connie steadied themselves and watched on, unmindful that they were leaving themselves defenseless for a fight that did not concern them directly.

The female Titan got the advantage of ground now, her opponent lying below her, still disoriented from the impact and with no way to defend himself. She sought some sort of payback, if that raised right arm was anything to go by. And in wind-scattering speed, her fist crushed bone and flesh, driving the skull deeper into the cracked concrete.

Armin had to steady himself again; the tremors from that punch was immense.

"Holy shit, man! The hell is she made of?"

He couldn't think of a reply. Such brute strength, compounded with her new Titan body, brought fear in him again. Was Mikasa even aware while in that form? Was she still the same old Mikasa he knew or was she now another abnormal Titan driven into a frenzy for battle, as if she had grown angry at fate not giving her the reunion with the one she wanted to be with? Would she fight and fight and fight until she spent every ounce of energy in her system? Did Titans even tire?

Armin watched as she lifted that arm of hers, the hand steaming and regenerating the lost flesh, still clenched into a fist and prepping for another strike. The sudden gust of wind, the downward motion, and the tremors that followed. Then the cracking noise. But his ears did not pick up the sound of ripping flesh and breaking bones.

He only blinked, but that was more than enough time for the male to initiate a fast counter. She tried to retract her arm and move away, but something seemed to have pinned in her place and her remaining choice was to ride out his incoming uppercut. Minimal damage sustained; she managed to position her head so that she would receive the least power from that blow. Even if that were the case, the punch was too strong to shrug off as if it were blocked. She still received damage in any case, and with that damage, there was momentum.

Five or six meters into the air, feeling the freefall before diving back onto the pavement, the remaining momentum dragging her farther away until she grabbed hold of the buildings on both flanks. She was in the middle of standing up when the male was upon her again, his mouth open and roaring a battle cry, his fist sailing quickly for her head.

She guarded herself, riding out the impact, and managed to stand her ground. She quickly grabbed his wrist, pulled him closer, and exacted revenge with her own uppercut. It was a strike that blew all expectations away. Connie looked too shell shocked to comment further on what happened, his eyes content in tracking the male's ripped jaw flying up, up into the air.

The male looked to have reacted greatly to that blow, wobbling in place before falling onto his knees and then lying face-first on the ground. With that, it seemed the male was down for the count . . . at least until his jaw regenerated. But Armin doubted the female would remain idle for that long. The uppercut tore apart her hand, leaving behind a stump of flesh with jagged, protruding bones. Steam covered the regeneration process of this injury. However, she was in no need of hands to do the rest of her job. One foot was already raised, seconds away from ending this battle with a swift finish.

But the male did not stand back up, did not move at all, and steam was quickly rising out of every part of his body. He was defeated.

The female lowered her foot and gave the corpse one last disdainful look—if it was really disdainful or just his mind playing tricks with him, Armin wasn't sure—before walking away.

"Did you just see what I just saw, Armin? You saw it right? Right?"

He nodded, not even trying to hide the nervous gulp bulging his throat. His mind, however, was on another matter. The female Titan should've sensed their presence by now. He could understand if she was distracted with other Titans coming her way (which also begged the question of whether or not she was also considered prey by her own species), but now that she was free so to speak, she had to have known that he and Armin were just a couple of buildings away from where she was. It wouldn't be that hard to come over to where they were and make a snack out of them, especially when their maneuver gears were low on gas.

"She's moving away from us," Armin voiced his most bewildering thought.

"No shit she is! And I'm damn glad of that. Did you see the way she moved? It was like seeing Mikasa making mincemeat out of Reiner."

"Yeah. Her form was like Mikasa's, too." No good. The belief was forming, solidifying. It wouldn't be long before he stopped denying and started accepting the fact that somehow, someway, his friend had turned into a Titan.

"Were those two Titans really using martial arts moves?" Connie's lips were pursed, his eyebrows narrowed deep in thought. "I remember seeing those stances back in combat training."

"Indeed they were," Armin murmured this time. Something about the defeated evaporating seemed enrapturing for him. That female wasn't the only abnormal one here. Connie inadvertently made him remember about the boxer's stance the male used during the fight, the ingenuity and precision of his moves that were so out of place in a Titan that it was beyond abnormal. It felt like looking at his corpse would shed some light into the many mysteries this encounter had piled into Armin's head.

His eyes tracked some movement from the corpse. Beyond the thick vapor, just below the male's half-disintegrated nape, a small part of the flesh there was disappearing quicker than the rest of the body. Armin narrowed his eyes. The form was familiar, but it was too far for him to make an accurate guess. He readied his gear and rappelled himself to the next building.

"H-Hey! Wait up, dude!"

He didn't take heed to Connie's cry. Desperation started to seep into his heart because while the form looked familiar, a part of Armin had already concluded what—and who—that form really was, yet logic would defy such a notion. It escalated to a mental tug-of-war and the only way to find a victor would be to check that form behind the vapor and validate his suspicions. And he never wished for his suspicions to be truer than he did that day.

His feet landed on the cracked pavement of street, discontented as he was about standing on a roof and looking at the form from afar. He needed to be as close as possible, but there was no real need. The vapor had long since thinned out and the lump inside the Titan's back had emerged completely.

"Eren . . .?" His foot took one step forward. "Eren?" Another step forward. "EREN!"

The run turned into a sprint. Damn it if the hot skin of the Titan corpse scalded his own. Damn it if Connie kept screaming from behind him. Damn it if by the time he reached Eren, he would realize that it was all just an illusion, his eyes wanting to see what he wanted to see because he was so desperate to believe that whatever happened to Mikasa could as well have happened to Eren. But what were the odds in that? Damn it if he knew. He just needed to get to him, quick.

He hugged Eren, now finding proof that it wasn't an illusion, that what he was seeing with his own two eyes was the real deal. He looked him over, taking note of the torn sleeve and pants leg, the same spots wherein the brunet was dismembered by two separate Titans. There were no stumps; his arm and leg had grown back, as if he had never been bitten by Titans at all.

"How? How could . . .?" He checked his pulse, wanting extra assurance that his friend was alive and well. When the healthy pulses bumping against his fingers weren't enough, he checked his heartbeat. Rhythmic beating greeted his ears, and the elation in his features showed.

Eren was alive and well.


	3. 02: How Ironic

Date written: 21/07/13 – 02/08/13

Posted on FanFiction: 03/08/13

* * *

— — **CHAPTER 2 — —**

**How Ironic**

Darkness.

Hatred.

Vengeance.

Eren was swimming in the darkness. Somewhere out there, a part of him was fighting, but inside here, inside where secrets could not be held and all truths ran wild like children in a playground, this Eren was serene even though his thoughts were anything but. On some level, he was aware of what was happening, just not on a very conscious level. All his subconscious—the current driving force of his outside self—wanted to do was fulfill his greatest desire, which was to exterminate every last Titan it could see.

But the subconscious had come back with its tail between its legs a few minutes ago. Or was it hours? One could never tell time inside this darkness. Eren sure as hell couldn't.

Still, he was enraptured by the fire of hatred, the pleasure of vengeance. They drive him forward, put meaning into his life when the Titans had taken everything away from him. His will would not back down until his goal was met, yet he had never at all contradicted that he was really doing nothing sitting inside the darkness, unaware of everything and nothing, and acting like he was okay with that. But it _wasn't_ okay.

A spark in his psyche ignited the flames, fanned it, nurtured it. His subconscious could do nothing but let the real Eren take control again. It had already lost, after all; it could only be there to safeguard the mind's inner desires and revulsions.

"Kill them all."

Yes, that was his goal, his purpose.

"Every single one of them."

Yes, no survivor must stay alive. The world would be rid of those horrid abominations soon. He just needed to recover that power. That power he had felt while inside the Titan's belly, a power that slipped the pain away from his stump of an arm, a power that brought him elation and greatness, able to dismember, kill, tore, kill, crush, _kill_, and _**destroy**_any and all Titans that came his way. He wanted it back. He wanted that power back so he could finish the job. Many more Titans still abounded the streets of Trost, abounded the lands of Wall Maria, abounded the lands beyond. He wanted to see how water could burn, he wanted to see how a lake could be deep and vast and filled with salt, he wanted to see how lands could be covered in sand, and he wanted—what he wanted more than anything—was to taste true freedom and know that he could witness these amazing wonders if he wanted.

"Kill. Them. All."

But the Titans were in the way. They needed to die.

"Kill. Them. All."

They needed to die. More than anything, they needed to die. Crushed or impaled. Sliced or torn. It didn't matter how. As long as they suffer.

"Kill. Them. All."

As long as they die.

"Kill. Them. All."

And stay dead.

"I—"

* * *

"—will kill you all . . ."

Before he was even halfway from waking completely, something hit his cheek and it hit him hard.

Blurry-eyed, with a coppery taste in his mouth, Eren looked back in front of him, nursing his reddening cheek. "Jean?" His eyes narrowed. "What the hell was that for?"

"You were talking creepy shit in your sleep, dumbass," Jean replied, rotating his fist. "Now can you stand?"

He wanted to nod, but he was still too disoriented to be sure if he could. His body felt heavy and slow, as if he was submerged in water, and his head was in the mood for splitting itself open without warning. His neck and back hurt, but that was more due to his resting position, his back to the wall and his chin kissing his chest while he had slept. Not just that; it felt like every joint in his body was protesting from any kind of movement. All in all, he felt like shit.

The room he was in was lit by a few wall torches. It almost looked like they were underground . . . or at least somewhere deep inside a building. The room, however, wasn't really a room but looked more like a wide corridor with three open doorways that danced with shadows and firelight.

A groan escaped his lips and the hand rubbing his cheek shifted to massaging his aching forehead. "I don't feel too good."

"Oh yeah?"

Jean punched him in the face. Eren reeled from the blow, banging his head on the wall.

"Jean, stop it! Eren's still injured." That voice . . . it sounded like Marco.

"And Mikasa's dead because of him!"

Disoriented but still aware, Eren registered that line and shock flooded his system.

"Mikasa died in the line of duty. Don't blame him over that. He wasn't even there when it happened."

"But it was because of her believing this little shit was dead that she—"

"What did you say?" He must've heard them wrong. There was no way she was dead. She was strong, unbelievably strong. It was just not possible for that stubborn girl to die in her first battle against those monsters.

Jean's eyes narrowed further, the emotion in them rolling off like waves in a storm. He was holding himself back from beating Eren to a pulp right then and there, but the hatred and anger was too much. That was the punch was for. It scraped some of the anger away, but the hatred was invincible; it would never leave for as long as Jean believed that—

"Mikasa is dead." A sneer was forming. "KIA, like most of the recruits who tried to get here, to HQ."

"But . . . but how?"

"We're in Titan-infested territory, what do you think, dumbass? And all because she believed you had kicked the bucket."

"You're lying!"

"Am I?" His voice turned cold. He neared Eren, although Marco was keeping a closer eye on him, knowing that he might just put a cheap shot in just because he could and wouldn't care of the consequences, and knelt till their eyes were leveled. There was hatred and anger. There was also ferocity, a cold kind of fierceness that resembled Mikasa's eyes before she went in for the kill. "Tell me, Eren, do I look like the type who'd lie about something like this?"

Eren couldn't take it anymore. It was not the tragic news that set him off, not really. It was those eyes. Those accusing eyes, as if he was in the wrong this whole time. He grabbed Jean's collar, uncaring of how his elbows protested, and butted heads with him. He received unflinchingly, closing his eyes once from the impact, but he never once put away that gaze filled with accusation.

"Liar," he growled, his hands shaking. His free hand was already forming a fist. "She's not dead!"

"Then why did Armin tell me the news?!"

The fist stopped inches before it hit Jean's face. "Wha—What?"

"Eren," Marco said, moving slowly towards them, then pulling them away from each other like a mother being gentle to her two roughhousing kids, "you were unconscious at the time. Armin and Connie carried you here to HQ, and Armin told us what happened. Or at least part of it. He wouldn't say a thing until you'd woken up, he says."

"He was probably just defending you," Jean opined. "A lot of good that'll do. Everybody else blames you."

"Jean!"

"Our greatest weapon, the strongest member of our platoon, and she died simply because she wanted to join you in the grave. And oh! Surprise, surprise. You weren't really dead to begin with."

Eren couldn't say anything back.

"Well? Speak up! What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Jean, stop it already," Marco said. "He's still a little disoriented; don't make things worse."

He heard rather than saw Jean grit his teeth, growling out the frustrations that had been building inside him for a while now, and then walk away with footsteps that sounded as loud as tower bells when you stand next to them. Eren could barely think straight, not just from the disorientation as Marco diagnosed but also from the impossibility that was laid bare to him.

Mikasa couldn't die for such a petty reason. She should know better than that. Didn't she value her life at all, the things she could've invested on humanity as a whole against the war with the Titans? No, dying for such a reason as learning he had died was ludicrous. It didn't sit right with him at all.

"Marco," Eren muttered, shaking his head once, twice, and then inhaling deeply, "where's Armin?"

"In the next room with the others, forming a plan to retake the supply room downstairs." Marco put a hand on Eren's head and narrowed his eyes. "A slight fever. You should've told someone that you were feeling sick earlier, Eren."

"Huh? What do you mean? I was perfectly fine this morning."

"But the temperature I'm feeling doesn't lie. You're hotter than normal."

Eren tried to stand. It was an effort equivalent to lifting a hundred pound weight one-handed. Marco helped steady him in the interim, still radiating with that mother hen vibe, but Eren could tell that he was also worried about Jean. Storming out in a huff was just the guy's way sometimes, especially whenever the two of them butted heads—that never changed, even during their boot camp days—but he always had Marco to be there and lend an ear if he really needed to vent out.

Eren understood that the friendship between those two ran deeper than any camaraderie among the other cadets, so he'd rather the bastard have someone to help cool his head off than let courteous formalities get in the way. "It's okay," he said to Marco, putting strength to his legs and made sure that they wouldn't look like they were shivering, like they were barely able to keep him standing straight and strong. "I'm fine on my own. You got another patient to look after." He gestured to where Jean had left.

Marco offered a tired smile at him. "A friend's work is never done."

He had to smile, too. "With him as a friend, I would've thought you had searched for a better job by now."

Marco chuckled in turn before walking away. "Don't strain yourself too much, all right?"

"Will do, doc," he quipped before nodding as well. He wanted to sound like all was well, but nothing was going okay beneath the surface. His body ached, his head was splitting, and his heart sank at every gruesome death his mind started conjuring for Mikasa. It was disconcerting how the human mind worked sometimes, how when you try so hard to not think about something or speculate the state of something, a part of you naturally rebels from your conscious efforts and backstabs you like some sadist who was also a masochist—loves to inflict pain, but inflicting pain upon himself was much, much better. And so the images appear like dropping snapshots.

Mikasa torn up and battered.

Mikasa bifurcated from the waist down.

Mikasa having her head chomped off by the same long-haired grinning monster that ate his mother.

Mikasa dead. Dead as Mom. Dead as Thomas.

He punched his own head a few times. The pain in his head paled in comparison to the pain his chest, though. Tottering, he made his way to the next room where Marco said Armin was in. He might've been a little numb of feeling due to all the pain occupying his mind, but he still had enough to discern that his gait was tottered balancing due to a difference in height on his legs. He looked down and saw why.

He was walking barefoot on his left leg. From the knee down, it was all flesh. The sleeve of his left arm was gone as well. And then he remembered his dream, an abnormal biting off his leg, another swallowing him whole after biting off his arm as he tried to escape. Unable to look away, unable to think of anything else, Eren stared at his arm. Unblemished skin, tiny tendrils of hair growing out of the back of his forearm, the wrinkles on his knuckles, on his palm, the calluses he had accumulated since the start of boot camp, the translucent skin thin enough to offer seeing the blue veins spreading around his whole hand, and even the clean fingernails. The strangely clean fingernails. Eren raised his other hand, comparing the two as if the other was an imposter twin. Same arm length, same finger length, similar wrinkles, similar calluses, similar veins, but the fingernails were all wrong. The right was dirtier, the underbelly of the nails infested with a black substance like the washed hands of a coal miner.

He knew he was overthinking things and understood that a dream couldn't have been real. There must be some other explanation for why he was short of a sleeve and a boot, some _logical_ explanation to put the clues together and answer his never-ending questions. But those fingernails—contrasts of dirty and clean, clearly implying that the left had not gone through what the right had, like comparing the life of a worker with a messy job and the life of a child who was pampered since he was born. One had just gone through hell and back; one had just finished growing.

Or should it be _re_growing?

_Stop it!_ he thought, closing his eyes from all the speculation, all the dreams disguised as flashbacks (or was it the other way around?), but like a breaking dam, once a big enough crack had formed, it was probably too late to try and stop it.

Thomas's death.

His reckless abandonment of protocol and formation just so he could charge in and kill the bastard Titan.

The surprise attack on his leg.

The decimation of his team as he lay battered and in pain.

Saving Armin from being eaten.

The hot belly of a Titan, watching in misery as he was powerless to get out.

His desperate cry reaching out to the heavens. His unquenchable rage driven to new heights.

And then a jumbled, mixed series of events that felt like there was neither rhyme nor reason in their flow and execution, but answers to the blackout he had faced.

Still, he refused to believe it. Not until he spoke to Armin. Only then would he have the real answers he sought, not the answers he kept seeing from his fevered dream.

Weak and exhausted, aching, and desperate for some more shuteye, he pushed forward despite it all. The mission was still ongoing; Titans were still attacking humanity and as long as he still had the will, there was no time for resting. His foot stumbled and he hit his shoulder on the wall, and while it stopped him from falling, it also stopped him from moving forward. The raspy intakes of breath were audible to his ears and he was sweating waterfalls.

"Armin," he murmured, and ventured forward, ever forward. "Armin . . ."

He stepped into the next room, looking worse for wear but nonetheless determined to get some answers. His fellow recruits were spread about the room, some looking lost, some looking hopeful. His entrance was noticed and almost everyone turned towards him. The room was quiet, idle chit-chat silenced as his footsteps echoed. In front of him, crouching down and reviewing a makeshift map of the supply room before his entrance, was Armin. His eyes bore the weight of exhaustion—black bags accentuated by his paler than normal skin—but also the fires of determination. His old friend had a plan. Whether it was for retaking the supply room, as Marco had mentioned earlier, or the confrontation the two of them would get into, there was no telling, but Eren wouldn't put it past Armin to plan for both.

The blond can be quite the multitasker.

"Armin," he said, just as the idling eyes of the people around them stopped their staring and resumed their talks and worries amongst each other, "we need to talk."

The place was too open for their talk. He knew Armin already thought of that as well.

Armin stood up and then muttered something to Connie, who was one of the few gathered around the map, who was also staring at Eren with a look that says, 'Do I know you from somewhere?' It might not be close to what that gaze really meant, but it sure as hell felt like that. Half-listening, Connie offered a nonchalant nod and tried to put his attention back on the map, but the guy wasn't smart enough to cover his tracks. Something was up, something that was putting Connie on edge around him. Did _he_ also blame him with what apparently happened to Mikasa?

_No_, Eren thought fiercely, _she's not dead. Jean was just screwing with me._

Might be, maybe, could be.

But why didn't Marco say anything otherwise?

Why did Connie look at him as if he were unsure of something?

Why would somewhere deep in his heart believed that Jean's words speak the truth, in both Mikasa's death _and_ his hand in it? Indirect as it was, he still played a hand.

_So why? Why all the speculation? Why all the doubts lingering in your head like a slithering parasite eager to mess you up more and more and more till you're nothing but a husk filled with guilt and anger and vengeance?_

Armin's voice broke through his thoughts: "The next room over will be okay. Can you make it?"

"Yeah," he said, but it sounded gruff and unconvincing, like a terminal patient saying he was fine. To stop the worrywarts from acting up before they started, he walked, even if it did introduce his legs to an interesting mixology lesson between pain and strain. He wanted to scream, but instead he walked. He wanted to cry, but instead he walked. He had to walk; he had to get this over with.

Knocking his back to the corner of the wall in the next room, breathing a lungful of air and then exhaling as if he were blowing out a torch, Eren knew that he was on his last leg. He was uncertain of how long he'd been out or when he actually started getting a fever (or even feeling sick, for that matter; as far as he knew, he felt fine this morning), but damn if it wasn't making his brain do somersaults while juggling. He was doing the best he could to stay focused and concentrate, but it was as hard as that one time his Mom offered to teach him how to sew and he had to push a thread into the eye of a needle just so he could one-up Mikasa, who slipped hers in on the first try.

_Mikasa . . ._

It all led back to her, didn't it? He just couldn't stop worrying about her, couldn't stop thinking about her. How ironic.

"Armin," he said, voice heavy, gaze to the ground before looking at his old friend right in the eye, "tell it to me straight: What happened to Mikasa?"

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

I was planning on finish this last week, but things escalated a bit in my real life. It's fixed now (in one point of view), but it's also kind of fucked up (in dozen other points of view). Worry not, though, my attention to this story is still going strong. Got some characterization, some dramatization, some MikaEre moments (yes, this is the official ship for this story; deal with it!), and even deaths. Plenty of deaths to go around—oh! but on who's side am I going to kill, hmmmm?

If you noticed it, then I applaud you. Each chapter would consist of a single person's point of view. The prologue was Mikasa's, the first chapter was Armin's, and the second chapter—_this_ chapter—was Eren's. Who will take the helm of POV character in the next chapter remains a mystery, however. I'm still deciding on who it should be . . .


	4. 03: The Thing Left Behind

Date written: 04/08/13 – 09/08/13

Posted on FanFiction: 11/08/13

* * *

— — **CHAPTER 3 **— —

**The Thing Left Behind**

Armin was feeling the exhaustion already. It had been that way an hour ago, and for the rest of the day, he was merely running on pure adrenaline and hoping against hope that he would not collapse in the middle of the operation. By the time his head met a comfortable pillow that night, he slept as if he had been awake for a whole week. It might as well be; the events starting from when he saw Mikasa get devoured by a Titan to when the hole in Trost was sealed was a roller-coaster ride of emotions, of despair, and of exhilaration. Death was a constant companion, looming over everyone's shoulders, just waiting for that right time to strike with its scythe and harvest the souls it had been waiting for.

But at the moment where he was alone with his childhood friend as the plan to retake the supply room was still being revised, death was a little farther away. At that moment, Armin's only concern was how to break the news to Eren. Mikasa's death, Mikasa's mutated resurrection, and Eren's own resurrection that defied all logic and what humanity knew of the Titans. It was difficult to comprehend, even for him, but his eyes saw what they saw and Eren's demise had not been some delusion. But 'demise' really wasn't the right word, for if that had been true, then Eren wouldn't be leaning on the wall and talking to him, alive. Alive . . . but certainly not well. His friend must be feeling worse than he was.

"Tell it to me straight: What happened to Mikasa?"

That was the crux of the problem, wasn't it? How exactly could he explain what had happened that seemed like a lifetime ago?

"I'm . . ." Armin paused, formulating what words to say, even though he had been planning on what to say for the past fifteen minutes since they got to HQ. Sometimes the moment of truth was where whatever speech he had come up with before disintegrates into oblivion, leaving behind a stuttering wreck with no idea which was up and which was down. Still, he had to relay the story as best as he could. No matter how ludicrous reality had been today, Eren still needed to know the truth. "I don't even know if you'll believe me."

His eyes bore into him, tired and ringed with black, but nonetheless determined to get this talk over and done with. Eren really looked like he _needed_ more than _wanted_ to know what had happened to his adoptive sister. What he lacked to say in words, he managed to convey in those steeled green eyes.

And Armin complied. "But I'll try."

* * *

"Fuck . . . me . . ." Connie might not have meant it, but he was spouting senseless profanity again. He had started the habit during basic training—maybe a lot of recruits had started to be more open with their swear words, especially when they have a drill instructor with the eyes of a demon and a mouth that had never been washed with soap—but only when he was completely distressed about something. Distress, however, didn't come close to matching the utter bewilderment that came alongside it.

Armin could relate to that emotion well. He was hugging the source of it, after all, and he wouldn't change it for the world. The steaming heat was getting to him, but he cared little about that; he was more concerned about what effects this could cause to Eren since he was as hot, if not hotter, as the evaporating elven Titan beneath them. The same Titan Eren had spouted out from after it tasted defeat from the superior female Titan a minute ago.

"Connie, give me a hand here," he called to his companion, gesturing to Eren's unconscious form.

Connie just stared at him—no, not him. He was staring at Eren, with eyes as wide as they could go on his shaved head.

"Connie!"

"Eh? Ah, uhm, ye-yeah." His voice was shaky. Armin couldn't fault him for that. This was turning out to be the most bizarre day of his life, too.

Once they both got ahold of their unconscious friend, they shoot their hooks onto the walls and hoisted themselves to the rooftop. They also surveyed the area one more time—just to be sure there wouldn't be any more sneak attacks from Titans, abnormal or otherwise—before snapping their attention back on the boy who was supposed to be dead.

"Hey, Armin," Connie said, kneeling next to him, "I thought you said Eren was dead."

"I saw what I saw," he argued, but his voice didn't have the energy, didn't have the conviction. His eyes tracked the torn sleeve and boot. Both from the left . . . the same ones that had been severed by the two Titans before Eren was swallowed. He traced the torn sleeve and was amazed that there was no trace of blood, not even a miniscule amount, as if Eren's blood evaporates like a Titan's. _Eren's leg and arm were bitten off and these are the proofs of it! I did not go mad._

But did that really make him sane? Just because of _this_, because he traded in the fact that Eren was dead for the fact that Eren had been resurrected somehow, had been housed inside the weak spot of a 15-meter elven-looking Titan causing genocidal rampage somehow? If anything, this just made him more insane than before to even believe that Eren was alive.

"Then why the hell is he alive?" Connie retorted, and if he had hair, Armin was certain he would've already started pulling on it. "You don't just say someone's dead and they suddenly appear from the nape of a Titan as if vacationing in there was a great idea!"

"I don't know what else I can say to convince you. All I know now is that Eren is _alive_. That fact alone relieves me most of all."

Connie looked like he had something to say, but had trouble articulating it into words of meaning. He gave up on that, sighed at the sky, and threw a smug look his way. "Mikasa'll be happy to hear this, too, dontcha think?"

How could she be happy when she almost killed him personally, albeit unknowingly? Armin thought it better to not mention that tidbit.

"By the way, where _is_ Mikasa anyway? I thought she was with you."

"She _was_ just a few minutes before you arrived." And was still here a few minutes afterwards. Now she was long gone, doing Lord knows what inside Trost. She could be killing more Titans like she did, here, but who was to say that it wasn't just a fluke, that the Titans were the only target she could find and now with Trost as her little playground, everything—and _everyone_—was most likely fair game.

_No_, he thought, checking for the second time that Eren really was breathing, _if she had wanted to kill humans, she could've done so with me and Connie. We were literally there, just a few blocks away. It would be weird for her not to detect us on the rooftop, yet she walked away. So what did that mean?_

That she was an abnormal that killed other Titans, was that the answer?

Armin looked at Eren's regenerated arm again. Could it be . . .?

"Well, she's not here now. She couldn't have gotten far, though. We need to find her before more Titans show—wha? Hey, Armin, where're you going?!"

"Keep an eye on Eren for me!" he shouted, pulling out his swords and depressing the triggers. "I need to go check something."

"Be sure to look for Mikasa while you're at it, dude!"

He _was_ looking for Mikasa . . . just not the way Connie had in mind. Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, swinging along the next street, hoping that his memory on specific landmarks put him in the same place as when Mikasa got devoured, Armin took a big risk and lowered himself down on the pavement. The body of the frog Titan was still in the middle of evaporation, but at least all the blood had dissipated entirely. That made this easier.

His eyes tracked everything in the vicinity, looking for the color of a soldier's jacket, wishing that his theory held truth in it. Back then, while he was grieving for Eren's death, he still thought about Mikasa's reaction and felt that it was better that they had something to bury him with than just an empty coffin. His corpse being burned along with the other dead soldiers wouldn't be the same; they needed a special ceremony of their own, where they could mourn alone and in peace. He had thought to bring back Eren's arm for Mikasa, if only to help her find peace for what news he had in store for her, but when he had tried to search for it amongst the swiftly evaporating Titan remains, it was nowhere in sight. He found nothing in his search. Nothing but a torn cloth from a soldier's jacket.

He didn't put much thought on that peculiar sight, then, but now it clicked. If Eren's body could regenerate like a Titan, spawn from the nape of a Titan, leave no trace of blood in his cloth like a Titan, then wouldn't logic conclude that the severed limb would evaporate like a Titan corpse? Sure, he was betting a lot on theories—theories he still had half of a mind to discredit, to even say that it's stupid and a waste of time—but he was desperate for answers, and this was evidence to support some answers he had already come up with.

He managed to locate the cloth, but he found more than that. Mikasa's arm—what's left of it—was just bones. Steaming, hot bones. It was a right arm, and he could even picture it having flesh and having the same shape and likeness as Mikasa's. But still, a part of him was not convinced.

This limb had little time left in this world and it showed. The pinkie bone was partway from disappearing, looking as thin as a toothpick. Armin racked his brain for some other distinguishable feature he could remember about Mikasa's arm. Something that was unique about her, just so he could doubly convince himself that this was hers, that it was really hers.

_But have you seen human-sized remains evaporating like a Titan's before?_

No, he hadn't. Never. So was this really Mikasa's? What more did he need to know to be fully convinced?

His hand hovered above the disintegrating limb, but it did not move farther. Something was stopping him, as if he had this crazy idea in his head that the arm was poisoned and a simple touch would kill.

It was something he had thought up that stopped him, all right, but it was more of a memory than a crazy idea. He remembered Mikasa removing her jacket and rolling up her sleeves before, back when they were kids, before all the pain and tragedies, and also back when they were in boot camp, before all the _second_ pain and tragedies. She, no matter what or when, always had a handkerchief bandaged around her forearm, near her wrist. When asked about it, she'd say that it was a mark left behind by her mother. Nobody asked why her mother marked her or why she kept it covered. Nobody except him and Eren.

She never showed them what it was under that handkerchief and they asked plenty of times, but this was a request she would never budge in, no matter the bribe, no matter the persuasion tactics. It was useless to try and look now, seeing as the limb was all bones and no skin, but the handkerchief . . .

Hesitating, Armin pulled back to sleeve and took great care to touch little of the bones—some stupid idea got into his head that they would explode if pressed too hard, but stupid as it was, it cautioned him. When it was pulled back enough, he hit pay dirt. The handkerchief was there, and so was irrefutable evidence that this was Mikasa's arm. There were no more doubts in his mind.

* * *

"Finished your business, Armin?"

He nodded. Bringing the arm would be useless—it'd disappear before long—so he stripped it of the sleeve and the handkerchief. He had no idea what to do with the sleeve, but the handkerchief could still be returned to Mikasa once she got out of that body. He was so certain that she'd emerge from the back of a Titan like Eren did that he never gave more thought than that.

"And? Where's Mikasa?"

"That female Titan earlier _was_ Mikasa."

Connie's eyes went wide again, and a sound from his mouth, weak and pathetic, came out as if it had come from a retard. "Uh."

"I saw what I saw," he repeated from before, this time with the energy and conviction backing him up. "Whatever happened to Eren is happening to Mikasa as well."

". . . that's just _fucked up_, man." He gulped. "Seriously? You aren't pulling my leg here, right?"

"I wish I was, Connie." He looked at the handkerchief in his hand for a moment before slipping it in his jacket's left inner pocket.

"So what are we gonna do?"

"For the moment we need to get ourselves to HQ. I don't like leaving Eren vulnerable like this."

"Are we even sure that's really Eren, though?"

"Eh?"

"I mean, what if this is some ploy from the Titans and they're using Eren's appearance as some kind of . . . kind of . . . uh, what was the name of that wooden horse with the trap again? Ah, damn, whatever! But you get what I'm saying, right, Armin?"

"Yes, but I'm willing to take that chance."

"Wha—? Armin! Are you even listening to yourself?! What the hell are you thinking?"

"What I'm thinking is that if Eren _or_ Mikasa had wanted to eat us, they would've done so a long time ago. Fact is that Mikasa took out two Titans and Eren took out one. Have you ever seen an abnormal do that kind of behavior?"

"Well, no . . . but . . ."

"As it is now, we have no idea just what is going on, but even then, I'm not about to let my friend get devoured a second time." His eyes closed. "Not again."

Connie looked away, thinking it over with building frustration. "Oh fuck it, all right, all right! I'm too stupid to think this over anyway."

"Thank you, Connie."

"Let's get this over with. You carry him while I cover you, guys, all right?"

"Sounds like a plan." Armin knelt, lifted up Eren, and readied his maneuver gear. "Ready when you are."

In response to Connie's nod, Armin depressed the trigger.

And so they sailed through Trost, avoiding fights with Titans as much as they could. They were low on gas and Armin was having difficulties keeping his balance while lugging around deadweight, and he wasn't exactly the most physically fit person among the recruits. His talents had always been with the mental portions of their training, the ones that dealt with planning and intellectual know-how of not just the equipment they were using but also the knowledge past soldiers had garnered from previous skirmishes with the monsters they were fighting. It did not matter, though. His muscles ached and he had more than a few near misses with buildings and dormers and chimneys, but he continued forward because it was the only thing he could do. Connie was doing what he could to keep him covered and take care of any straggling Titans that came their way—Armin was extra glad they hadn't encountered abnormals in the area—but their gas canisters were still low. Movement had to be prioritized, lessened to the point where they were practically gliding rather than flying through the air.

It was not easy to do, he would confess if asked, but it was either that or running on empty while they were ways away from the objective.

"I can see HQ," Connie announced, hopping from dormer to dormer before maneuvering his gear to shoot the farthest building it could reach. "We're close."

When Armin got the chance to see the large building, too, his eyes immediately fixated on the number of Titans surrounding it. Mostly 15-meter walkers with silly grins and large teeth.

And they were all lying on the ground, steam rising from their disintegrating bodies.

A roar sounded off from the other side of the building, a roar he recognized right away. "Mikasa."

He landed, Eren in tow, next to Connie, who had stopped to survey the wide ground surrounding HQ. His eyes went from Titan to Titan, the damage each sustained was almost gut-wrenching, and it was easy—too easy—to picture Mikasa's Titan form laying waste upon her enemies as if it were going out of style. The roof shook a little alongside a crash in the distance both of them could only discern as a massive stomp. She was not yet through eliminating her prey, it seemed.

"Connie, before we get in there, I want you to promise to not say a word about Mikasa."

"Will they even believe that Mikasa turned into a Titan?"

"I don't know, but I don't want unnecessary questions until I got some answers from Eren first. He might know something . . . then again, he might not."

"Whatever, man." There was another crash, followed by rising brown smoke behind HQ. "Human or Titan, Mikasa can still kick ass, I guess."

Armin opted not to reply to that. He pulled Eren to his chest and readied himself. Suddenly, he felt the burden lessen in weight and saw Connie slinging Eren's other arm over his neck. "We're at the last stretch already and you look like you could use some help."

"Thanks, Connie."

"No thanks needed." He smirked, but his eyes still looked a little troubled. "Just helping out a couple of comrades."

* * *

". . . by the time we got in here, I managed to convince everybody about the abnormal female Titan that kills its own kind and use her to our advantage. The supply room downstairs is housing seven Titans at the moment, and while she's out there killing the monsters that come in her sight, we can swoop in, eliminate the seven, refill our tanks, and regroup on the other side of the wall."

Eren said nothing.

"That was the plan I pitched in before you came in. Everyone agreed to it, though we're still undecided over who'd be the seven to kill the Titans. Anyway, Connie managed to keep quiet about not only Mikasa's transformation but also your . . . resurrection, for lack of a better word. I only got to take their minds off of your sudden reappearance, Eren, but don't think that's going to stick. Someone _will_ ask what really happened, and I'm afraid of how any of us will answer it."

Eren said nothing.

"Eren, I've already suspected that you might not know everything that's going on—either with you or with Mikasa—but I still have to make sure: What was the last thing you remember?"

Eren visibly gulped, formed his thoughts, and concentrated. Fresh sweat was gleaming from his cheeks. "I remember . . . blood. Lots of it. I felt rage. Despair. Hopelessness. I had this unending urge to kill the Titans that it was all my mind would think about, saying it over and over like a mantra: 'Kill them all.'"

"And where were you when this happened?"

He took a deep breath. "In the belly of a Titan." He looked at his regenerated hand, clenching and then unclenching it. "This is unreal. Could that really be a dream or did it really happen?"

Before they could make real headway in their conversation, Jean came in the room, his face marred with reluctance. He jabbed his thumb at the direction he came from. "Got the rifles out of storage, Armin. You might want to check them out with the rest."

"We'll be right there. Thanks."

Jean nodded at Armin, glared and sneered at Eren, and sauntered away.

"We'll talk about this later," Armin said. "Right now, we have to think about getting ourselves out of Trost."

"But what about Mikasa? She's still out there!"

"I know, Eren, I know, but we can't do anything at the moment. Everyone's gear is out of juice, and you lost yours. The best option for us is to regroup and resupply. We'll think of a way to get to Mikasa afterwards."

"And what's going to happen to her in the meantime?"

"I don't know." He shook his head, emphasizing the blank he had on that topic. "I'm mostly running on guesswork here. But I am sure of one thing, though: Mikasa sees the Titans as her enemy and the Titans see her as prey like us. If anything, she's still fighting for humanity's sake."

"This . . ." Eren gripped his forehead. "This is a lot to take in. I mean, Mikasa and me, becoming Titans, Armin? That's absurd on a-whole-nother level. But . . . you're right; we can talk about this some other time."

Armin knew that his friend didn't believe everything he had told him. Of course it was a farfetched story, too farfetched to be closely believable, but some matters of proof were already working against Eren's train of thought. Armin could tell that much was going on, yet his friend still refused to acknowledge the facts. It didn't really matter, though. Eren needed time to cope, time to process everything, time to get up to speed on the current situation. It would be stupid to shovel all these revelations down his throat without respite.

Maybe helping with the plan could help take his mind off the mental load, give it time to really sink in. But how exactly could Eren be able to help? From the moment he had stepped into the room, panting and sweating, even a blind man could tell that he wasn't up for anything strenuous at the moment. If anything, it would just worsen his condition. But Armin knew Eren; he would beat the odds, shrug off the pain and exhaustion, all just so he could prove that he wasn't a liability and could stand on his own two feet just fine.

Years of being manhandled and escorted by the wrist, so to speak, by Mikasa left its mark on him. Armin knew that it was unhealthy for his friend to keep this up, but born from that stubborn nature was a will that never included 'surrender' in its conception. Once Eren set his mind on something—_really_ set his mind on something—well, not even Mikasa could sway him away from what he wanted. All she (sometimes even Armin himself) could do was go with the flow and take on damage control if Eren ended up biting more than he can chew.

With a heavy heart, he let his friend do what he wanted to do in this operation. He'd chip in and ensure that Eren wouldn't put anything too tasking for his body, but that was as far as he could supervise. Anything more would be reminiscent of how Mikasa did it, and, much as he'd like to avoid getting into a confrontation with his friend during a very crucial time, his worries were more centered on not making him remember Mikasa at all.

He grabbed his jacket, feeling for the soft lump of Mikasa's handkerchief. It was still there and he was still thinking about giving it to Eren as a keepsake of sorts. Maybe something to break the ice once they got Mikasa back and she awoke to a torn sleeve as well. The truth was sure to put her through a loop, but he knew that she'd accept it much more readily than Eren. The handkerchief, though . . . what was he to do with the handkerchief?

He looked at Eren's back, at the way Eren would try to keep his stance straight but one couldn't help noticing how he swerved like a drunkard trying to walk without falling on his bum. His worries acted up again, reminding him what his friend should not be thinking about.

_Later_, he thought, _I'll give it to him later. Once we start looking for Mikasa. That'd be the right time. _

As they walked back to the elevator room, Armin wondered if he was making the right decision.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

And here I go again, with a new chapter and more storyline development that seems to walk on a snail's pace. It's a bit of a weakness of mine to input a lot more detail in each scene before moving onto the next one. It eats up more words, but that's just the way I'm used to. If I go about with the fast-paced, straight-to-the-point kind of writing, then I'd feel like I'm doing the craft a great disservice somehow. Sure, there are plenty of writers out there who do that style, but they are mostly people from the thriller/suspense genre. Thrillers are _supposed_ to be fast-paced. This isn't thriller, but an action/adventure story with romance (which will be emphasized on once the story moves on the days after the breach, but not telling when specifically, coughsecretcough). In short, I'm a big Stephen King fan. And while I liked The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, I'm not keen on Stieg Larsson's slightly monotonous writing style, although that could be blamed for the translation (I don't know; maybe it sounds more appealing in its original language, Swedish). Anyway, on to a point I need to address.

**Reason why Mikasa's near HQ **– I have failed to address this point anywhere in the story because I'm limiting myself to the Limited Third-Person View form—think Harry Potter, wherein the whole story revolves around Harry, his thoughts, what he experiences throughout the books, and mostly imply what had happened whenever Harry wasn't around to see it. For those who don't think much on it, then don't think much on it. For those who want an explanation for why she was there at all, considering in canon, the three had to direct Titan Eren to HQ, it's just a simple explanation.

The one thing I understood about Eren first transforming into a Titan was that he was driven by an instinctual desire to kill every single Titan. That desire showed up in spades once he emerged from Santa Titan's belly as if he were one of the Greek gods Cronus had eaten and, contrary to the myths, burst out of his stomach prison. Eren kills and kills and kills and kills, because that was all he had in his mind from the moment he transformed. A similar experience happened with Mikasa, but instead of killing Titans, she wanted to _live_. Killing Titans became a secondary objective because her instincts already know that as long as a Titan was near her, she has the chance of dying.

And so, how did all that come to her going to HQ? Another simple answer. Firstly, remember how Eren assumed a martial arts stance when he faced a Titan, even though he was moving totally on instinct? That stance was done on a subconscious level, because he was fighting on even terms with an enemy, so his subconscious mind went for the best way to defeat that enemy. Mikasa held a memory of HQ being flooded with Titans all over, compounded with an objective she had in her mind ever since Armin told her the bad news (she needed to get to HQ and kill the Titans there, every single one of them). And so her subconscious did the rest.

**The 'Mark' on her arm **– this was replaced in the anime with some kind of embroidery technique handed down by Mikasa's clan. In the manga, as many of you readers may have already known, the bandaged forearm came up a few times during the flashback chapter, and then was never spoken of again afterwards. Yet one of many plot points that will most likely be emphasized on later in the manga (Chekhov's Gun, anyone?). I'm just stating this out for anime-only viewers, just so they don't get confused about this tidbit in my story.

Be sure to leave your thoughts and opinions of the story in the reviews after reading, okay? They help with the motivation, after all.


	5. 04: Fragments from the Forgotten

Date written: 12/08/13 – 29/08/13

Posted on FanFiction: 31/08/13

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

This chapter was intended to be a lot longer than where I've ended it, but I wanted to save that for later. With my history of writing action scenes, I think this is a good call, because there's more to just the action scenes, there's also the buildup I need to make and even the denouement, that cooldown after the final punch was thrown and the loser gets KO'd. Plenty of shit to do…

And in case nobody has noticed, there's this great new fanfic in this fandom that came out recently and I honestly advise you guys to try it out, if you haven't already. It's called **Losing Control**, by _HighQueen_. The same author who brought this fandom gems like **Abs**, **Stolen Moments**, **Why won't you let me protect you?**, **An Accidental Transformation**, and **At The End**. This recommendation is a MikaEren story, centering on the romance and its drama right from the get-go, but it's not without its own set of action scenes that really brings out the awesomeness of Mikasa and Levi. Seriously, check her stories out if you haven't already. You won't regret it!

* * *

— — **CHAPTER 4 **— —

**Fragments from the Forgotten**

"Are you sure you're up for this, Eren?"

He looked at Reiner, whose eyes were narrowed in uncertainty, as they descended the steps to where they could assume their positions above the beams of the supply room.

"It's not about whether I'm up for this or not," he replied, his footfalls providing a unique sound compared to the rest. After all, he was still missing one boot. "For Armin's plan to work, it needs people who are efficient in Titan killing."

"Just because you're in the Top 10 like the rest of us does not mean you can do this while sick," Annie said. "Your enemy is your own body, not the Titans."

"Like I said, it doesn't matter. As long as I can hold my blades, I can fight."

"Leave it, guys," Jean said. "He's not the 'Death-driven Bastard' for nothing."

Eren pulled in his anger; he didn't want to rise to the bait. Ever since he and Armin had returned to the elevator where all of the desperate troops were busying themselves with Armin's plan and the rifles, Jean would utter insults at every opportunity. He rose to the bait more than once, almost ending up with the two of them going toe-to-toe—reminiscent of their days in training, Eren grudgingly admitted to himself—but the rest of the squad managed to keep them apart long enough to calm down. Scolds like "We're surrounded by Titans left and right, and you two take the time to duke it out while the rest of us figure out how to survive? Tch. Real mature." came their way, and he had to grit his teeth so as not to lash out again and prove those words right. The anger, however, was not directed at the speaker but at himself for not having complete self-control.

Sometimes it was difficult to keep his anger in check when the bastard did everything he could to make him miserable. He was already worried about Mikasa as it was, and Armin was certainly determined to keep Jean from mentioning Mikasa in his presence for some reason or another, but the repeating reminder that if not for Mikasa believing that he was dead, then she wouldn't have been so eager to die just to join him. The Mikasa he knew would never do something that reckless and selfish. She just wouldn't . . .

"But you know, guys," Connie said, cutting into the conversation, lifting the two ultra-hardened steel blades in his hands to shoulder-level, the tips pointed to the ceiling, "can we really kill _them_ without our Maneuver Gears?"

"Of course we can," Reiner retorted, full of confidence. "Those guys are just three to four meters tall. Easy pickings for targeting their weak spots."

"Yeah," Jean said, though he sounded less confident than Reiner. "Size don't matter, as long as we strike from their heads to the base of their necks!"

"Target: a meter long, ten centimeters wide." Sasha was smiling, but Eren felt no happiness in it, the kind of smile that was forced for either the sake of others or the one smiling.

"Or we could just shove this up their asses." Reiner brandished his sword in the air. "That works just as well, too."

Eren sighed and tuned out the conversation. Reiner was most likely joking—given the utter absurdity of his claim—but he sounded convinced that it was fact and should be known to the others, as if saying he had done this before on another Titan. Eren would rather stick to what was already established as a weakness (if it ain't broke, don't fix it and all that jazz) than stick his sword where the sun didn't shine. Titans didn't even have assholes to begin with.

Armin's plan for eliminating the seven Titans roaming downstairs had both complexity and simplicity, depending on which group one was in. Simplicity was for the people on the lift, carrying those years-in-storage rifles with loaded rounds, who would be attracting the seven monsters their way, waiting for all of them to come close, and then shooting them in the eyes simultaneously. Complexity was for him and six of the other Top 10 rookies, making their way to the beams above the supply room, positioning themselves near the lift, tasked with the most vital step of the whole plan, which was to tear open the weak spot of all seven Titans before they could recover from the blinding. Forget precise slicing they'd been taught to do for years, the real hurdle for them was to find some way over the beams without alerting the Titans of their presence. Easier said than done, though; they were soldiers, not ghosts.

At least he was feeling a lot better than before. Still in pain, with every muscle acting up like wounds reopening, but his body had now gotten accustomed to it, numbing some of his nerves so he could think straighter. Or maybe it was just his body adapting to the problem, like calluses forming on a farmer's busy hands. Whichever it was, he was glad for it; moving around was a lot easier and he seldom had to grit his teeth to stop the groan from escaping his mouth.

"Bottom floor," Jean announced as they reached the end of the steps and a small wooden door stood in front of them like a barrier blocking off the forces of hell. "Any ideas on how to approach this?"

There was little to no information provided for what anyone could expect once that door was opened. There were veterans—in the rookies' eyes, the soldiers who had graduated and enlisted in the Garrison a year or more ago were coined immediately as veterans—among them who had been tasked to supervise the operations of HQ, inventorying and the like, before this mess came about and it was because of them that they didn't have to go through all this blindfolded. The potential fly in the ointment this plan had was the accessibility of the room beyond that door. Since every veteran present always used the elevator, they were not familiar with the use of the emergency stairs, unsure whether the door would lead one straight to the supply room or a short corridor with additional storage rooms. Risky as it was, none of them had much of a choice. It was do or die here.

"We could try dashing in and scrambling out," Connie opined. "Find a ladder somewhere and climb up. That too."

"Are you even taking this operation seriously?"

"What? You asked us for any ideas and I just gave mine!"

"_Valid_ ideas, please. The sane kind."

"How about we just go with what Armin suggested?" Annie asked, her face unchanged, an expression of disinterest. Not even an ounce of tension there, but she had always been the girl with the poker face, in his opinion. "It holds the best survival rate thus far, in my opinion."

This was taking too long. Eren walked towards the door, passing Jean by. "We have to hurry it up. Armin gave us fifteen minutes to get into position and I'd rather not waste any more time."

"Oh sure, how about we let the Death-driven Bastard open the door for us," Jean replied, a suggestive question that sounded more like a declaration.

"Enough with the petty calling," Annie said. "You're sounding immature."

"What? You're defending the guy?"

"No. The pointless insults you shovel down his throat neither help nor improve the situation at hand, so might I suggest you save those words for when we're on the other side of the wall. At least then you two have free rein to fight it out like tomcats."

Eren had no idea if she was helping him or helping herself. Maybe a bit of both. Maybe. Well, at least it made Jean stop the insults for a bit. That, and the gaping expression on his face was kind of a priceless sight to behold. If only he had some way to immortalize it . . .

Inches away from the door, he grabbed ahold of the doorknob, twisted it, and pushed with little force. When a thin gap was made, he peeked inside. The assumptions of a corridor placed before the supply room proper was false, because the gas tanks he knew to contain the juice for their maneuver gears were looming like precious mineral veins just waiting for a pickaxe to drive in and take the earnings. He looked left, then right, scouting every corner he could manage, wanting to be sure that once they step out, they wouldn't encounter any surprises from the Titans wandering this place.

"No corridor, but all clear," he said, keeping his tone quieter than usual. When they nodded, Eren fully opened the door and entered.

* * *

The supply room was filled with gas tanks and supply crates. The other side of the room would be housing spare 3-Dimensional Maneuver Gears, but that could wait. Right now, the objective was to get to the beams above. They thought of using a ladder, but there was none in sight and, if he remembered correctly, the equipment storage area connected to the supply room was on the other side of it. They'd have to trek thirty meters to get there, passing by any and all Titans that came their way. Without gears to lift them up, fighting those monsters would be a losing uphill battle, unless Lady Luck intended to watch over them in the duration of the plan.

Eren was not one for superstitions, but he wished that there was something like Lady Luck watching over them. Not that he would risk life and limb just to prove his wish came true. He lost two limbs and almost lost his life once already.

"Change of plans, people," Reiner said, keeping his voice leveled as the rest started panicking like headless chickens. "There are no ladders in sight, but we can use the tanks as platforms to get to the beams."

He made it sound easy, considering that the tanks were high and cylindrical and possessed no climbable edges. Lucky for them, Jean spotted some nearby crates and four of them transported one next to the tank nearest to a column. One by one, they climbed the crate, then the tank (with slight difficulties coming from the shorter ones like Annie), and then they made their way to the beams.

The second part of the plan was finished and now they walked across the beams, careful to be quiet so as not to alarm the Titans. They assumed their positions, ensuring that they'd get the most out of the distance from where they were to the empty platform where the elevator would descend. Timing was key in this part; the moment they hear the gunfire, they must dash away, calculate the initial reaction of their designated Titan, leap from the beams, and cut open the monster's nape and spine.

It would be a while before the fifteen minutes were up and the rest of the recruits come down here. Eren's friends were tense and ready, and he was as well, but . . . his mind just kept going back to Mikasa, wondering how she was holding up and wrapping up the idea Armin had planted in his head. The time between their descent to the supply room and their ascent to the beams above it was not remotely enough to get through all the thoughts processing over and over in his head. Even now, he had a hard time believing the truth when the facts were already stated and given. This wasn't some elaborate prank—Armin would have to be cruel to make a prank like this—and there should be no reason to lie to him, yet it was hard to accept and believe, all the same.

No need to lie, no gain in joking, no possibility that Armin could do something this cruel. The conclusion was that Armin believed his own words, every bit of it, and his friend expected him to do the same. Well, Armin hadn't let him down before, and the thought of him going insane from all the traumatic things he had witnessed since the invasion of the Titans never really registered in his head. To Eren, Armin was an absolute anchor to his own beliefs, adapting to whatever unnatural thing he laid his eyes on. While Eren had expressed complete disbelief at the thought of a ginormous body of water that encompassed more of the world than land itself—while also containing an insurmountable amount of salt, a rare resource, in it—Armin took it as a fact, a marvel that could only be seen in the outside world. A land covered in sand, water that burns, islands made of ice, the wonders of the outside world, Armin's mind never showed doubt or skepticism. His eyes showed wonder and the desire to discover these wonders, and while Eren had a different reason to seek these places out with him, it wasn't as if he, too, would like to stare in awe at the beauty that this rotten world had, at least so that he wouldn't lose the little faith he had left of it.

But if he did believe Armin, the real question still had to be answered: How did he and Mikasa turn into Titans?

Was it just them or was this a widespread case, with plenty more abnormal Titans going on a genocidal spree on their own species? If so, were they also humans suddenly turned into Titans after being devoured by one? Eren could look over every bit of fact he knew right now, and still he wouldn't come up with something concrete to help the validity of Armin's claim. He believed him, that much was true (was it really, or was he just forcing himself to believe it?), but he also wanted some kind of proof that there was an actual cause to his transformation into a Titan. He also wanted to verify if this whole incident was a one-time thing or he could recreate it somehow (he crosses the line if it means getting eaten by a Titan again).

But more than that, he needed to know if Mikasa could be saved without having to defeat her. She was frighteningly powerful as a human. How much more frightening could she be as a Titan?

Eren suddenly heard faint noises coming from below, sounding like chains jingling and jangling together alongside metallic screeches akin to nails to a chalkboard, and he knew right away that it was time. Random thoughts had stopped, his mind now focused on the task at hand. From the corner of his eyes, he espied the rest of his team doing the same, determination in their eyes and in their crouched stances. Eren could feel the sweat trickling down his cheeks.

He took deep breaths once the elevator platform came to view. Every one inside it had their rifles out, locked and loaded, pointing at each cardinal direction and merely waiting for the signal. His eyes traced the steps of each Titan coming their way, feeling the nerves coming and going all around him. He still felt sick, he still felt residual pain, he still felt the headache (but it had now simmered down to a mild nuisance instead of an excruciating torture session), but as he leveled his breathing and concentrated on hearing the sound of multiple thunders, his body turned numb, his mind wiped of all unnecessary thoughts.

Everyone was tense. The Titans drew near. Eren could almost imagine the soldiers' shaky hands, their overpowering urge to screw the plan and apply a few pounds on the trigger, their bludgeoned courage as it did what it could to keep fear at bay. In the presence of Titans, that emotion was constant, an instinctual reaction brought on by the terrors they had inflicted upon humanity for over a century. There was no way to suppress it completely, Eren acknowledged that, and very few would have the guts and determination to face those monsters again and again and again till there was nothing left of their species to terrorize any other, Eren acknowledged that too, but he was at least thankful that his friends were handling this relatively well. They had a very good motivator, of course. Timing was everything here. One slipup and it was bye-bye freedom and hello Titan stomach, my how _hot_ it is inside here.

The pool of blood that reached his chest. The floating cadavers all around him. The other survivor inside that hellish pod muttering "Mama, Mama, Mama . . ." over and over before she drew her last breath, one syllable away from repeating the word again in her mantra. These flashes came in an instant, but soon left in the same speed as they had come. Eren refused to get distracted at this moment. They were so close to firing. His heartbeat quickened, whether by anticipation or anxiety, it mattered little. The plan must succeed. The lives of his comrades depended on his ability to slaughter his designated Titan.

Just a few more seconds . . .

He lowered his chest to give himself a faster boost once the team opened fire, and the movement disturbed the necklace he wore, slinking out from within his tunic and catching his attention. It was the key his father—

Pain.

His whole world exploded in pain.

This was no ordinary headache this time. He felt like collapsing again, how he always did whenever the last talk with his father was brought up. But he shouldn't. Eren was willing his body not to betray him, not at such a crucial time, but the _pain_! The pain was too much, eroding his strength and power, demanding with all the force it could garner that he be forced to remember that night when his father . . . when his father . . .

"FIRE!"

The gunshots roared and echoed in the supply room, but Eren did not hear. His mind was trapped inside a memory that had been sealed years ago: the last time he and his father, Grisha, had talked to each other, on that ominous night where the moon was new, the city was asleep, and only the bonfire in front of him casted any light and pushed away the darkness.

He was holding the key, tied to a string which was wrapped around his hand. His father just gave it to him and now he stood beside the fire, looking like the world was gone, like the very foundations that kept humanity afloat was gone. Eren had thought that he was grieving over mother's death still, but maybe there was something else, something Grisha never dared to tell him that night.

His memory warped, putting the events of that night through flashes with no order or reason.

"_**The world is ending, Eren."**_

_**Tears in his eyes.**_

"_**Only you."**_

_**The tears fell.**_

"_**You **_▄▅▄▅▂▂▃▃▄▅_**now it."**_

_**He gave him the key.**_

"_**The basement—**_

"_**You must go there."**_

_**Screeching, hazy, a syringe.**_

"'_**Their' memories wi**_▅▅▄▄_**lp."**_

_**Pain, agony, memories, blood, the serum—**_

"_**I'm sorry."**_

_**REACH THE BASEMENT! THE BASEMENT IS THE KEY! THE KEY IS THE BASEMENT!**_

_**THE BASEMENT**_

_**THE BASEMENT**_

_**THE BASEMENT**_

_**THE—**_

_**See you later—**_

_**Traitor! You goddamn trai—**_

_**I'll cut your arms and le—**_

▅▄▅▅▄▄▅▅▅—

_**I'll trust you—**_

_**Freja . . . **_▅▄▄ _**. . . sama— **_

_**No, Eren, stop. Don't do this, please don't. Come back! No, no, no, NOOOO!**_

"_**Give me your arm. Now."**_

"EREN! What the hell are you doing?!"

What replaced pain was rage. He was not aware of what he had done, but the moment he kicked away at the column for a boost in speed, the force of it slammed and bent the wood. A Titan was in his sight and the rage doubled. A growl came from his throat as he leaped, blades swerving high before swerving low, from one side of the Titan's nape to the other side, going on a downward diagonal.

And as his feet landed on the floor, Eren blinked his eyes once, twice, thrice, shook his head and gritted his teeth. The area behind his eyes was pounding, and he hissed at the oncoming pain. He stayed crouched and hoped that the pain would subside and that his brain could catch up to what he just did. His hands shook and his breath came in rapid pants as if he had been close to drowning but reached the surface in time.

"One Titan's still standing!" someone shouted from the elevator.

Eren's eyes widened. No, it couldn't be. He was sure he sliced the back deep enough for a kill. Though his body protested, he stood up and brandished his blades, only to stare at a hot dissolving carcass lying on its front and looking like it was eager for ravens to come and peck at it. But if not his, then whose—

"Sasha!"

"Help! Help! Somebodyyyy!" Her screeches were grating, the desperation in her voice palpable. The healed eyes of the Titan were locked onto her, grabbing her. She struggled to break free, but panic had planted itself too deep for her to think of anything but cry for help. "Don't wanna die don't wanna die don't wanna die don't wanna die . . ."

Eren looked at the scene and was reminded of that day five years ago, of when humanity remembered how much it feared the hunger of the monsters lurking beyond the Wall, of how that grinning Titan picked up his mother and ate her.

Instincts took hold and he used his crouching position once more as a boost for his starting dash. His legs burned and he ignored it. His will, his goal, his dedication . . . they all honed in on what was in front of him. More than anything he did not want to relive the memory of what happened that day. He already let his whole team down; he wasn't about to stand around and witness the death of another comrade. But a stray thought kept popping up in his head the lesser the gap between him and Sasha was: the Titan had already opened his mouth, its intent clearly to bite the woman's torso off, and she screamed so mindlessly that it began to sound like fingernails scratching a chalkboard. A simple thought, really, but its effect almost twisted his stomach.

_She's going to die and you know it._

He was getting close, but so was Sasha's death.

His eyes tracked the gap, closing and closing, and his ears caught the incessant and panicky screaming coming from his comrades, each containing a last desperate call to Sasha, as if words alone would save the girl from certain bifurcation. Eren pushed on and his legs were crying out for respite, for rest, for the time that this whole exertion would end, but he paid no heed. A comrade was in danger, a friend was about to die. There was little time to think about the consequences now.

Just moments away from the Titan, and he could almost picture himself leaping three meters high in a single bound, not at all thinking of the impossibility, and slicing that monster to pieces, making it so that it suffered slowly before one final slash ended its misery. But could he jump that high? Could he do it?

"FIRE!"

The shout came from behind him, but his concentration never wavered, didn't really register Armin's shout or the hail of gunfire that came afterwards. Blood was spurting from the Titan, two on the side of its face, one on the arm holding Sasha. It managed to disorient the Titan, tilting its head to the side, with one knee crashing to the floor. Using the downed knee as a stepping stone, Eren hastily leapt till the Titan's wrist was in his range and he sliced down as if he were slamming with a sledgehammer.

His blades managed to cut the Titan flesh halfway, and there they remained, embedded right in the middle of healing muscles and bone. Some nerves that controlled the hand's grip had been severed, and Sasha was dropped unceremoniously to the ground, her sobs continuing, and whether it was due to her desire to survive or general fear of the monster that almost ate her, she turned tail and ran. Eren would've followed her example, but he was not through with the creature just yet.

His only weapon was gone, slowly bending and melting within the healing wound, but his will had not faltered. He eyed the blades with a clinical gaze a second before he had to vacate the knee he was standing on. The Titan's other hand slammed his previous position, bringing with it a resounding noise akin to a whip tearing both flesh and the sound barrier. With a plan in mind—crazy as it might be—Eren climbed the wounded arm, careful not to get in reach of the hand lest he be captured and crushed. Again, timing was everything, now more than ever. The Titan was moving again, lifting both arms, with one in the midst of a comeback performance. With the time ticking away, he grabbed hold of one blade, bracing his legs and angling his pull so that, even with a few more tugs than he would've preferred, the lower part of the blade would part from the rest.

He pulled hard and the sword was severed, leaving behind the majority of its steel, but at least, despite the blade reaching half a foot, he wasn't weaponless anymore. His pull, however, had momentum and when the sword broke without warning, his body followed the force and he dropped to ground not unlike to what happened with Sasha earlier. A second later, the same whip-like sound crashed into his ears, making him wince and thanking the Lady Luck up there somewhere.

The Titan's comeback slap made more damage to its already wounded arm, and like the mindless little shit it was, it paid no heed to it, concentrating its limited thought process solely on the prey in its sights. Eren stood up, assumed a fighting stance, and held his sword with both hands. His eyes gleamed with a power that could be closely described to the word 'unbreakable.' He spoke no words, but the look on his face told of a challenge the Titan would never think of backing down from—not with its one track mind, anyway.

He was prepared for the imminent attack, but all he got was it puffing its chest out, head suddenly tilting upwards as if the ceiling became its prioritized prey, and knees buckling before giving out as a flying stream of dark blood emerged from its back. When the Titan was down for the count, he saw Annie looking at the steaming corpse and then at him, her eyes narrowed and disinterested, as if the whole affair had been a real bore for her.

Feeling a little disconcerted, he muttered out a thanks at her anyway when he got close. He might've imagined the "You're welcome" she muttered in turn, and he had no real evidence to either support or argue it because her just leaving the moment he heard her—or thought he heard her—proved nothing. Somehow, though, he believed Annie might not be the stoic, uncaring person she claimed herself to be.

"All right, guys!" Jean said to the people on the lift. "They're all down, now let's hurry up and resupply."

Eren chanced a look around the place and listened to the cheers of his friends as they raced towards the gas tanks, fully intending to fill up and get out of here as fast as they could.

"EREEEEEENNNN!"

Unprepared but reacting fast enough to keep his footing, he now had to contend with a clearly distraught but glad Sasha, who was clinging to him like a girl who got lost in a forest.

"You saved me! You really saved me back there!"

"Erm . . ." He had no idea what to do here. He looked around, wanting to see if anybody could help, but they were either busy saving their own hides or purposefully ignoring the situation so as not to get dragged into it. He sighed.

"Thank Annie," he said. "She's the one who killed the Titan." He tried looking for her, but she was nowhere in sight. Probably taking back her gear from the ones who were tasked to keep watch of them.

"But, but, but it was _you_ who s-stopped it from eating me." Her tears doubled and she hugged him for dear life. "I was so scared! I really thought it was the end for me, hic, uwaaaaaaaahhh!"

_If this isn't a surreal experience, then I don't know what is_, Eren thought, still unsure of what to do with a girl crying on his chest.

"Eren," Armin called as he approached, relief flooding both his tone and expression. "I'm glad you're all right."

"I'm more glad that _everyone's_ all right," he replied after nodding, unconsciously rubbing Sasha's head like how he would often do with Mikasa whenever she had nightmares of that tragic day again.

_Mikasa . . ._

The rubbing paused for a second as he blinked his eyes a lot longer than what was normal. He looked down at the sobbing wreck wetting his tunic. "Some more than others."

Armin's relief crossed with something Eren couldn't discern, but the frown gave enough reason for him to understand this conversation was going to more serious matters, and he knew instantly what it was. "What happened back there exactly?" his blond asked. "The signal was given, but you killed your Titan later than the others. If I hadn't asked for the guys to prepare a second salvo as contingency, you could've been killed, Eren!"

He stopped his hand just so he could grab hold of the key hanging around his neck. "I remembered something. The last time I talked to Dad."

Armin's eyes widened, his worry shifting. "You remembered?"

"Yeah." He gritted his teeth, but not out of pain. The memory, when it first came, was very jumbled, but now with clarity washing away the rage he had built up minutes earlier, so had the memory's haze. He remembered now of what exactly had occurred on that night and the serum his father had injected in him. His last order before he disappeared, with him free of the pounding headache whenever he tried recalling it, was now fully ingrained in his mind: reach the basement.

The implication from their conversation alone was enough to convince Eren that his father had something to hide from not just his family, but also from humanity in general. Something was in that basement that could turn the tables with their war against the Titans, but what made him decide to keep it from humanity's grasp? Just what could justify the cattle-like existence their species had to endure for a century without respite, with the body counts from the Scouting Legion piling up more and more each passing year? Just what?

"Sasha." He gently pushed the girl away from his chest when her sobs turned calmer, subdued. Her face was a total mess—red eyes, tear tracks on her cheeks, snot running down her nose, and her forehead wet with sweat that strands of her hair stuck to it like insects on a cobweb. "Come on, man up! We're not out of the woods yet. Go and resupply, I have something important to talk to Armin about."

Her lips trembled and then thinned, her mind trying but failing not to recall her very close brush with death, before she nodded and walked away, one arm going up to rub her face.

Once she was out of hearing range and with the rest of the group busy refilling their gas canisters, he thought of starting the talk with the main information he had learned, but he was too strung up, too confused and angry to deliver the words coherently without sounding like he was on the verge of roaring his rage to the heavens. He paced the distance between the dissipating Titan's head and feet, taking in deep breaths, unmindful of the heat and the strange odor that came along with the corpse's steam.

"Eren," Armin said, sounding worried now, "what's wrong?"

He stopped, took one more deep breath, and answered, "What's wrong, you say . . .? It's my old man." He looked at his left arm and those clean fingernails again. The hand clenched, then unclenched. "That bastard has a lot of explaining to do."

And so he told his friend all he knew and remembered from that night so long ago.

* * *

**2****ND**** AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

**Armin's Plan **– I've found it odd that neither the manga nor the anime clarified how exactly the seven volunteers managed to get on top of the beams, preparing for the kills. I thought about expanding that part of the story a bit, and this is what we got. I hope it did justice for canon.

**Mikasa's Inky Eyes** – one of the reviewers of the previous chapter said something about Mikasa having the same eyes as the Dancing Titan. My first expression was confusion (Dancing Titan?), then realization (Oh! _That_ Dancing Titan), then _more_ realization (Wait… Mikasa looks like Ymir?), and then acceptance. It was a mistake on my part, because I had meant to say that her eyes were wide as they could go and her irises (not the whole eyes) were so dark that it was akin to the void. I wanted to set it up so that she looked to be giving you a Thousand Yard Stare, the kind of stare soldiers with PTSD sometimes do. This showcases another side of Mikasa's PTSD, not just the stoic personality we see in canon. Her dead-looking eyes in human form was another sign, yes, but there is still a range of emotion within those eyes. It's not just about the state of her irises, but also the subtle expressions her eyes make (when she's relieved, when she's pissed, when she's worried, it still _varies_). That's where the wide-eyed stare comes in. There is no expression other than that, as if I completely removed her ability to blink or move the small muscles surrounding her eyes.

That was the initial plan, anyway, until I realized that I'm not exactly putting much "oomph" in the conceptual stage of her transformation. From what we've seen in the manga (as of Chapter 48, anyway), each Titan-Shifter had this certain _unique_ trait that differentiates them from the Titan norm. Ymir, for example, is an ugly-ass, **knife-eared**, **black-eyed** hag in Titan form. Reiner's initial Titan form is **armored**. Annie's form is **muscle-looking** (in the anime, anyway, whereas in the cover art for manga Volume 8, she had normal skin like Eren's Titan form) and has those **half-torn part on each of her cheeks**, kind of like the Joker played by Heath Ledger. There's also Eren's form which has **elven ears** (similar to Ymir's) and an extra set of teeth beyond the third molar—and on an escalated level to boot. Lastly, Bertholdt's form is probably the **tallest** we've seen—and if you counter with the Wall Titans being as tall as him, my counter-counter is "I don't think so. Take a look again at Chapter 33. The Wall Titan shown was just about 50 meters. Bertholdt was about 60 meters, or he wouldn't have been able to stick his head _above_ the Wall."

The fact of the matter is that I made Mikasa's Titan form while thinking of a _unique_ trait. The initial title of this story is actually "Titan of the Orient" before I changed it to what it is now (and I'm still contemplating whether or not to change it to that rejected title), and to emphasize that point . . . well, I did the stereotypical thing and colored Titan!Mikasa yellow. I thought that'd be enough at first, but what I thought of as a description mistake turned out to be a stroke of genius (hyperboling here, don't mind it). So I instead incorporated the completely black eyes into Mikasa's Titan form. It would surely be a good parallelism with Eren's elven ears.

A big shoutout and thank-you to **GhostWriter73** for being the reviewer to point this out to me!


End file.
